Dependent
by savory pie
Summary: Through their misfortunes, two people learn to depend on each other in order to survive. IanGirom


**Disclaimer:** I do not own MÄR.

**Words: **2, 006

**A/N:** This fic was a challenge from Werewolf of Fire on the Märchen Awakens Romance forums. I hope I did your idea justice with this story, if not…I apologize. If you are discontented with this, just say the word and I will try to write a better story!

Hmm, I never meant for this to be so…philosophical. Anyways, this was quite the challenge, and I even used the present tense. I've also never written a lemon/lime before, so this is all new to me. Even so, I hope you like it Werewolf, and hopefully it was worth the wait.

Constructive criticism is encouraged and appreciated, so please don't be shy!

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Dependent

Swiftly and silently, having done so a thousand times before, the knight wakes up at dawn, disappearing to the courtyard of the castle to train. Training makes him stronger, more focused, and helps him forget what's right and wrong.

If there is no difference between the two, he is able to feel no guilt, no pain, but in doing so he only attempts to get rid of his humanity, the one thing that keeps him from going completely insane. That sense of right and wrong and strong attachment to life are all part of being a human, even if one's sense of justice is horribly twisted and they love life for the wrong reasons.  
Somehow, we are all the same, yet different just as life is a wonderful, displeasing oxymoronic _thing_.

With the Chess waging war against all MÄR Heaven, he shouldn't have the time to be able to ponder about these trivial things, but with nothing else to occupy his time, this is what he usually does: idly existing.

Pausing in his rigorous exercise and illustrious, majestic tango with bloodstained metal weapons, the knight ceases all movement, tilting his head to look at the small patch of sky visible. Soaring towers composed of sturdy, stonewalls covered in rotting moss frame the patch of clear blue that starts bleeding, all color gradually fading into bleak grays. The atmosphere changes to match the warrior's mood, almost as if the world is mocking him, and just as he thinks this, a light rain starts to pour from the heavens and he is reminded of his miserable condition.

He trains to become stronger, but in reality, he is still a cowardly, young boy with a weak heart.

**o-O-0-O-o**

The young bishop lays in bed, listening to the oak door close, the creak barely registering in his inattentive ears, his mind blank as he turns to his side, the maw of dreamless slumber consuming him whole.

In what seems like a few seconds, the boy wakes up to waste another day of his life fighting and killing because there is nothing else to do.

**o-O-0-O-o**

The knight takes a break, even though he is not fatigued in the slightest bit. He rests his back against a column of the hallway connecting to the main building of Lestava Castle. The morning drizzle tries, in vain, to wash away red blotches on the blades of his weapon ÄRMs, marks that are forever etched into the cold steel.

He feels like he wants to cry all of a sudden, starting to breath heavily as if his training had exhausted all his energy. A minute passes and his breathing returns to normal, but the knight is far from calm, a memory haunting him. A familiar face with blonde and ginger locks framing fair skin involuntarily develops in his mind. Small, soft lips form a delicate and innocent smile, opening and saying words that leave the knight horrified and mesmerized at the same time.

"_I love you…Ian."_

The knight, Ian, shakes his head violently, as if trying to shake the face out of his memories. Yet, he does this impulsively because if he should forget the face, he would never be able to remember it.

The words the face spoke were almost certainly not true anymore, Ian decides, remembering in shame how he became the person he hates most. He doesn't remember giving in, but tears well up in his eyes and stream down his cheeks noiselessly, so quiet that even Ian himself does not notice he is crying until the salty droplets of water reach the edge of his mask, meeting and forming into one large drop threatening to fall.

Gido…

**o-O-0-O-o**

The bishop is terribly confused, trying to set his mind at rest and explain the situation to himself, he tells himself that Ian is simply providing him with something he needs, maybe something that they both need…

When put into simple terms like that, he feels more confident and less confused even if he does not know what he is trying to explain and the explanation provided does not fit. The way he walks becomes different and is converted from a detached saunter into a self-assured stride down a maze of repeating, identical halls that lead nowhere. A wide, toothy grin graces his facial features and he looks unchanged, but looks are often misleading.

**o-O-0-O-o**

Ian decides to take a nap, since he will probably get no more than a few hours of sleep later on. He prepares himself for hellish nightmares. Nightmares that are certain to follow as his eyelids become heavy as if they are burdened with the weight of the entire world.

He sighs and starts to speculate as to why people cling to life so desperately.

It isn't that great and can be taken from you at any moment. Every waking second, someone dies and no force mankind possesses can stop death.

**o-O-0-O-o**

The bishop, named Girom, hungers for food when his stomach grumbles softly, reminding him of its emptiness. Leisurely, he walks to the castle's kitchen and rummages through the pantries, coolers and any other uncluttered shelf or door.

He finds nothing.

Girom wants something to eat, a specific food, something with a specific taste, but he doesn't know what either is. He leaves the kitchen empty-handed, heading for the only other place with food: Weasel's garden.

After fifteen minutes, Girom walks out of the maze of exotic plants, escaping with a few scratches from Weasel's Seed Cannon and guardian ÄRM, wooden bird. The old man is very protective of his weeds judging by the way fought so ferociously.

Girom licks and nips at two deliciously plump, ripe strawberries that he managed to pick while dodging attacks the old man threw at him. Satisfaction in his no longer void being, the bishop walks, or rather wanders aimlessly around the magnificent palace, taking no interest in the aspects of castle that make it so grand.

He doesn't take interest in anything ever since his sister was killed…

**o-O-0-O-o**

He is in a dungeon; he can tell because it reeks of blood and corpses otherwise it is too dark to see anything. His eyes hurt when light pours onto them, blinding him with overwhelming luminous rays and his body becomes striped with shadows of the bars covering the only window in the room. The crescent moon looks very ominous for some reason and something hits the floor, clangs echoing throughout the small cell.  
Ian looks down. He just dropped a razor sharp sickle, one from his ÄRM Break and starts to shake uncontrollably. There is no acting involved, only a repeat of an experience no one should have to be put through. Words spew out of his dry mouth, unwillingly, his voice forming words that mix in with his frantic gasps for oxygen.

"Why…why can't I do it!? I have to, I-I want to, so why…?"

He is weak, he is unfaithful, and he does not love her as much as he likes to pretend he does. Gido's gone, she's gone and he is only able to shed tears at her absence. He values his life more than he loves her.

He is selfish. He even ran at the ghastly sight of her rotting body when it happened, only to come back later to find that the servants of that castle had disposed of her corpse where all the deceased prisoners go…wherever that is.

"Pathetic, Ian." Someone spits venomously from behind him. There are no footsteps, they aren't coming closer. The person snickers at the sight of the knight on his knees, shivering and shaking like an animal caught in a snare.

A snake deviously slithers beneath the skin on the back of his neck, a detestable feeling and he deserves it for he has become a detestable person. Ian's neck shakily straightens, allowing him to see the visitor who dared to mock him while he drowns in his feelings of misery. He darkly glowers at the person who joined him, and his eyes narrow dangerously.

"What do you want, _**Girom**_?" The knight has no trouble showing hostility towards the thing mocking him.

"Well, what do you have to offer?" The bishop gives a toothy, wicked grin, which earns him an unexpected, hard punch in the gut. After Ian delivers the blow, he pins the imp to the wall and delivers him another hateful punch, this time in the face. The bishop turns his head and only his cheek is scathed.

All the while, Girom preserves that twisted smirk on his face and that just annoys the hell out of Ian.

"What kind of service is that, hmm?"

"Shut up." Ian's face is mere centimeters away from Girom's. He can feel the imp's every warm, uneven breath on his cheek. The boy is not as calm and collected as he feigns…and he has the nerve to call _him _pathetic. The knight scans the bishop's face, studying the strange cyan marks on his eyes, the odd third eye in the middle of his forehead, and the dark, feral, crimson eyes staring back at him.

Ian spots a small trickle of sweat slowly making its way down the other's neck. Upon seeing the clear, ivory skin, the young man starts to wonder how long he had last felt the touch of another.

"Just shut up." The knight repeats and quickly crushes his lips against the startled ones of his victim.

**o-O-0-O-o**

No sweet words are spoken and no confessions of undying love are whispered. There is nothing but pure lust. There are no strings, no real relationship, just sex. Flavorless, meaningless, bloody sex.

Neither is allowed to moan the other's name, not that they would. Somehow Gido's name is mentioned occasionally, but neither knows anything beyond that, being entirely absorbed in the moment.

An act of showing love and affection has become an addiction, a mere activity to do in one's free time.

**o-O-0-O-o**

His body aches for his touch, for _someone_ to touch him. The warmth of another is a very comforting thing, telling you that you're not alone. No one truly enjoys living in total solitude.

A fairly strong breeze constantly whips at the side of the bishop's face through the open window with crisp, cold, night air as he recollects and replays the bland events of the day in his head. He doesn't even need to turn around or listen for the creak of the opening door to know.

"You're late."

The man smiles in amusement and chuckles a bit. Fleeting moments like this are rare relics of the past, reminders of the person he used to be before he joined the Chess Pieces.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault that you decided to show up early."

"Hmn."

The knight closes the space between the two in one graceful movement. His arm snakes around the younger boy's thin waist, his hand grabbing it rather roughly as he pulls Girom towards him. Hot, impatient kisses are placed on every inch of uncovered skin and bodies entangle as the two find their way to the bed and discarded clothing crumples onto the floor.

As Ian tugs at the hem of the other's last article of clothing, his hand freezes, literally, instantly becoming numb, cold, and immobile. He opens an eye, revealing a stunning shade of green.

"What?" His voice sounds irritated and impatient, not at all concerned. There is no 'What's wrong?' 'What's up' or anything more than that single word.

"…"

The bishop opens his mouth, but nothing comes out of his mouth, no words, at least.

The knight sees a flash of red and feels a wet _something _on, around, and in his left ear and resumes ripping off the rest of the other's clothes.

**o-O-0-O-o**

Neither of the boys wants this, but they _need_ it…and that's just what the two in the room were: boys. Neither of them is truly a man, but fearful, confused children unable to fend for themselves.

And so, they depend on each other in order to survive.


End file.
